by Nick Kyme
‘Populated?’ asked Belath with considerable excitement.
‘Yes, populated,’ said Astelan with a smile. ‘You seem to have joined us just in time. Five years we have been out in this wilderness with barely a glimmer of life to be seen. I hope you realise how fortunate you are.’
‘Certainly,’ said Belath. He took a deep breath and then turned to face Astelan, his fist held formally against his chest. ‘With your permission I would like to lead the assault.’
Astoric and Galedan both laughed, but were quickly silenced by a look from Astelan.
‘While your enthusiasm is commendable, it is a bit early to be talking of assaults,’ the Chapter commander told his young peer.
‘Do you plan to make contact?’ asked Belath, his eyes fixed on the hololithic representation of the world.
‘I have not yet decided,’ said Astelan. ‘It is a delicate situation.’
‘As far as we can determine, the inhabitants are as yet unaware of our presence,’ said Galedan, staring at the flickering three-dimensional image as if it was the world itself. ‘Contact would reveal us and we would lose the element of surprise.’
Astelan nodded in agreement.
‘It’s a mess of communications,’ he admitted. ‘I do not know how we would make contact, or with whom. There appear to be no planet-wide official frequencies. It seems that we have several states and governments to deal with.’
Belath looked up at this, his face thoughtful.
‘That could prove to be an advantage,’ he said. ‘We could introduce ourselves to one nation and deal directly with them – use them as a partner to reveal ourselves to the remaining populace.’
‘But with whom would we initially ally ourselves?’ said Astelan with a shake of his head. ‘We have no means of determining which power bloc is dominant, if any. Such an intercession could provoke conflict between the states, even civil war.’
‘We need more information before we can proceed,’ said Astoric. He glanced at the others before continuing. ‘Local knowledge.’
‘Communications techs are analysing everything that’s incoming,’ said Astelan. ‘We can unravel more through studying the commsfeed.’
‘Why not just go and take a look?’ said Belath. ‘Better still, we should capture some of the inhabitants for questioning.’
‘We’ll need somewhere isolated,’ said Galedan, peering at the hololith. He nodded in satisfaction and indicated an area on the southern continent. ‘This area seems sparsely populated. There’s scattered urban centres, but plenty of open space for us to land undetected.’
Astoric turned his attention to data streaming past the image of the planet.
‘It will be nightfall over that part of the planet in just under three ship hours,’ the captain said. ‘One moon will be in recession, the other dark.’
‘I will lead a short sortie to the surface to establish a ground base and gather more information,’ announced Astelan. ‘We’ll drop tonight with a reconnaissance force and see what we can find.’
‘Is that wise, commander?’ asked Galedan. ‘It would be more prudent if I or one of the other captains led the mission, you are too valuable to risk until we know more.’
Astelan fixed them all in turn with a fierce stare.
‘It’s been three years since I last set foot planetside,’ he growled. ‘I’m bloody well going to step onto this one first!’
AS ASTELAN HAD wished it, so he was the first to step from the assault ramp of the huge Harbinger drop-transport. The drop-ship could be more likened to a small fortress than a transport, silhouetted against the cloudy sky. The outline of the drop-ship was broken by eight armoured turrets armed with lascannons. Smaller automated defences swivelled back and forth; rocket multi-launchers and anti-personnel heavy bolters peered towards the horizon with unliving eyes.
The whine of anti-grav engines caused Astelan to step aside from the ramp. Ten jetbikes swept past in pairs, their riders clad in stripped-down armour. A few metres from the drop-ship their engines erupted into piercing howls and the reconnaissance squadron fanned out swiftly. Soon the flicker of their jets disappeared into the darkness. Following closely behind, heralded by the deeper thrum of their engines, two land speeders shot from the bowels of the Harbinger, their heavy weapons ready to provide support to the bikers.
Squads of Astartes pounded down the ramps, the drop-ship trembling with the weight of dozens of booted feet upon plasteel. Squad by squad the company assembled under their captain before being dispersed to positions around the site.
Astelan cast his gaze left and right, taking in his surrounds, the landscape digitally projected onto his eyes by his helmet’s auto-senses so that the dark was almost as bright as day. According to Astoric there was a medium-sized conurbation three kilometres away. The dropsite was located in a patchwork of fields separated by chest-high walls and ditches. Here and there were dotted clusters of plain buildings. To the west was a thick forest, beyond which lay the town. The fields rose up onto steep-sided hills to the north, but the rest of the terrain was open and flat. It was these long fields of fire that had contributed towards Astelan’s decision to land at this point.
It was here that Astelan hoped to make contact with the planet’s inhabitants.
Having been present at three other first-contact situations, he knew that the next minutes and hours would be vital. Scans had shown no orbital craft, even basic communication satellites, so the shock of visitors arriving from space might well be considerable. Astelan had chosen this relatively small backwater to acclimatise to the world and to act as a gentle introduction to the natives – it was unwise to drop armoured warriors into the heart of a planet’s major cities unless widespread panic was the desired result.
That the world did not have space-capable craft was surprising but not unknown. So much knowledge had been lost during the long centuries of darkness, many worlds had even returned to cruel barbarism and superstition. At the moment, the world was neither friendly nor enemy, simply an intriguing enigma that Astelan wished to swiftly unravel.
Astelan set up his command post some five hundred metres from the Harbinger inside an abandoned farmstead. It was a set of simple cubic constructions of plascrete, of a pattern laid down by the standard template data seen all across the galaxy during mankind’s expansion to the stars. As other units moved to similar positions in buildings and along walls surrounding the dropsite, Astelan idly mused whether other standard template construct materiel would be found. It was not a particular concern of his, but the Mechanicum of Mars would be interested.
The sound of a distant detonation tore Astelan from his thoughts and he dashed outside, ducking his considerable frame beneath the low lintel of the doorway. Amongst the trees a pall of smoke rose into the air. He saw flashes of flame and a few moments later came the crash of more explosions.
His comm-piece crackled inside his helmet and Astelan gave the sub-vocal command that activated the pickup. It was Sergeant Argeon, the leader of the recon sweep.
‘It looks like our small town is, in fact, a military installation, commander,’ the sergeant reported blithely. ‘I don’t think they were expecting visitors.’
Astelan swore loudly. The jetbikes were almost three kilometres distant, several minutes from supporting units. Before he could make any further analysis, the keen auto-senses of his armour attracted his attention.
It was the unmistakeable whine of approaching jets.
The defence arrays on the Harbinger also detected the incoming craft and a hail of missiles streaked skywards upon trails of fire, screaming to the west. Explosions blistered in the low clouds that hung over the whole sky, but there was no way of telling if any had hit their targets.
No more than a minute later the answer came. Small black shapes appeared, a long chain of them drifting downwards towards the Harbinger. They erupted in blossoms of incendiary destruction around the drop ship and upon its hull, splashing some form of burning fuel in their wake. Evi
dently at least one aircraft had survived.
As the Chapter commander processed this new development, Argeon’s voice was in Astelan’s ear again.
‘They are readying for an attack on our position,’ the sergeant said. ‘What are your orders?’
‘Pull back a kilometre and establish a new cordon,’ Astelan replied. Jetbikes were for scouting, not for mounting a resistant defence.
‘Acknowledged, commander,’ said Argeon.
The tactical display showed that Sergeant Cayvan was moving his three squads forwards on his own initiative, securing the boundary of the woods. Astelan left the experienced sergeant to his own devices, confident that he knew what he was doing.
‘Withdrawal pattern, commander?’ asked Sergeant Jak in the comm-piece.
‘Not until we know what their aerial capability is,’ said Astelan. There was little sense in piling the troops back onto the burning Harbinger until Astelan knew whether the enemy had the means to shoot down the transport.
A different tone signalled a message incoming from orbit.
‘I have coordinates for orbital barrage confirmed.’ It was Belath, his tone quiet and assured.
‘Negative,’ responded Astelan. ‘They might not have orbital craft but we have no idea if they have ground-based defences capable of striking back. Do not give away your position.’
‘I understand,’ said Belath. ‘I am dispensing craft for atmospheric dominance.’
‘Yes, cover the landing zone and put your companies on their ships in preparation for landing,’ Astelan said.
‘They already are, Astelan,’ replied Belath with a note of umbrage.
‘Stand ready for my word then,’ said Astelan.
By now the Harbinger was ablaze along half its length. Its surviving turrets were firing a near-continuous stream of anti-air rockets into the clouds. Their approach all but masked by the din, more unseen jets screeched overhead and a short while later the ground was rocked by massive explosions.
The heavy bombs tore huge craters in the grassy mud and sent plumes of stones and dirt high into the air. Several scored direct hits on the landing craft, tearing out great chunks of plasteel armour and rockcrete superstructure.
More thunderous detonations swiftly followed, the explosions much smaller than those of the bombs though more accurate and numerous. It appeared that artillery was also being brought to bear on the drop zone.
The rattle of small-arms fire drifted from the woods, interspersed with the heavier cracks of bolter rounds. Cayvan’s squads were being engaged by their new enemy. Astelan swore again. He had so little information with which to construct a suitable strategy. The enemy had unknown numbers, unknown positions and unknown capabilities.
In the face of his own ignorance, the Chapter commander fell back on the principal strategy of the Astartes – attack and dominate.
‘Cayvan, hold position,’ Astelan barked quickly over the comm-net. ‘Sergeant Argeon, I want the locations of those artillery pieces relayed to Chapter Commander Belath. Jak, deploy your Devastators onto the hills and provide cover fire. Move the rest of your squads north and support Cayvan. Melian, stand ready to reinforce either flank.’
His warriors thus set into motion, Astelan ducked back inside the farmhouse. It was empty inside but for a few broken pieces of furniture and discarded rags. Sergeant Gemenoth had erected a tactical display unit in the centre of the main room. It was a simple vertical glass plate and projector, linked into the comm-net of the Dark Angels’ battle-barge in geostationary orbit thousands of kilometres above them.
The screen showed the rough topography of the surrounding area, and the locations of Astelan’s squads were marked out by symbols that juddered across the artificial battlefield. Astelan tried to match the fragmented display and the gunfire and explosions outside with the reports buzzing over his helmet’s comm-link. It was no good; he still felt he had no clear picture of what was happening.
‘Squads two and three, form up on my position,’ he told his guards as he moved back outside.
The Dark Angels closed in on Astelan as another salvo of shells tore at the ground around the farmstead, showering them with clods of earth, shrapnel and pieces of stone clattering upon their armour. As Astelan vaulted over the low wall encompassing the group of buildings, he cast his gaze to the woods.
There was still a considerable amount of firing and detonations tore at the treetops. There seemed little threat from other directions so it was towards the forest that he led his men.
Another barrage landed around the Dark Angels as they jogged towards the treeline. Astelan felt the shockwave buffet him, while battle-brothers Rathis and Kherios were thrown from their feet by the impacts. Astelan stopped and turned with concern but the two Astartes pushed back to their feet and retrieved their bolters, their armour pitted and scored but not breached. Assured that neither was injured, Astelan continued towards the trees at a brisk pace, slipping his power sword from its sheath and unholstering his bolt pistol.
The trees were closely packed, the thick canopy of foliage swathing the woods in darkness. A few ferns broke through the leaf mould but the woods were otherwise free of undergrowth. The ground was soft underfoot and the heavy Astartes sank into the mulch, their boots leaving deep prints in the rotting leaves.
Muzzle flashes and the roar of bolters drew them to the left, and barely a hundred metres under the trees, Astelan saw the first of Cayvan’s squads. The Astartes were standing just beneath the lip of a long, low ridge, trading fire with an enemy as yet out of Astelan’s view. Bullets kicked up sprays of mud and pattered from the Dark Angels’ armoured suits.
Astelan reached the squad, and their sergeant turned to address him.
‘Sergeant Riyan is flanking to the north, Chapter commander,’ the Astartes said. ‘He believes several hundred attackers, maybe up to a thousand, are trying to push through to the landing site.’
‘Then we must push back,’ said Astelan.
He waved for the squad to follow him and stepped over the ridge. Astelan saw immediately that the enemy were using the trees and undulating ground for cover, darting into view, firing their crude automatic rifles and then ducking back out of sight.
As soon as he strode over the ridge, the intensity of fire rose sharply. The flare of gunfire seemed concentrated to his right as the fusillade tore bark from trees and slashed through low-hanging branches. He felt impacts across his chest and right shoulder but paid them no heed.
Behind him the squad advanced in two sections, one laying down a storm of bolter fire while the other advanced. The foremost Astartes then took up position and unleashed their own weapons while the rest of the squad moved up past them. The explosive-tipped bolts tore chunks out of the trees and ripped apart any enemy soldier unfortunate enough to be hit.
As they closed in, Astelan could make out his foes more clearly. They were dark-skinned and dressed in drab blue overalls. They looked more like farmhands or factory workers than soldiers, but they held their ground as the Astartes approached and their fire was both accurate and determined.
Glancing around, Astelan saw the bulky shapes of other Astartes moving in from the left and the right, pressing forwards alongside their Chapter commander.
A bullet struck Astelan’s helmet, its impact knocking his head back. Dizzied by the hit he fell to one knee. Static blurred the vision in his right eye as his helmet’s auto-senses attempted to recalibrate themselves.
Astelan could see indistinct shapes along a low ridge just to his right. Though half-blinded, he raised his pistol by instinct and fired off eight shots, the whole magazine, in the direction of the enemy. Two soldiers were torn apart by the bolts and the rest ducked for cover.
Several seconds passed and still the vision in his right eye was fuzzy.
With a grunt, the Chapter commander stepped sideways and stood with his back to a tree. Shells were now erupting around him, blasting apart foliage and bark, and bullets whined and splintered close by. Unper
turbed, Astelan stowed his weapons and then twisted the helmet free, which came away from the neck guard with a hiss of escaping gases. He hooked the helmet to the belt band of his armour.
Tasting blood, he reached up to his right cheek. There was blood on the fingertips of his gauntlet. Astelan had no idea how deep the wound was, but registered no discomfort, so he assumed it was superficial. His enhanced blood would have clotted the wound already.
He calmly reloaded his bolt pistol and drew his sword again.
Astelan resumed his advance, cracking off single shots as heads and limbs moved into sight from behind the trees. At close quarters the fighting was becoming chaotic. Rounds zipped and screamed past every few seconds, though none struck him. The artillery fire was slackening, perhaps for fear of hitting their own soldiers or perhaps from some action by the Astartes. Still, a few shells were detonating close at hand, spraying Astelan with charred leaves and baked mud.
A new sound entered his consciousness: the throbbing bass note of an autocannon. The sound was reassuring, and Astelan looked to his right and saw an Astartes laying down a curtain of fire with the heavy weapon, his legs braced wide apart, a torrent of shell casings clattering off his backpack.
This proved too much for the enemy and their fire quickly diminished as fighters were driven into cover by the autocannon’s fearsome torrent of fire. In the lull, the Astartes charged forwards, bolters coughing, battle cries ringing from the trees.
It seemed that Riyan’s flanking manoeuvre had been successful, for the enemy were streaming away from their positions, heading back westwards, while more Astartes moved in from the north. Tongues of fire licked out through the trees from flamers, while bright lances of multilaser fire strobed with deadly effect along the foxholes and shell scrapes the enemy had dug into the ground.
